


12 Days (or Less) of Christmas Pit of Vipers

by quillingyousoftly



Series: Pit of Vipers [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Burns, Christmas, Collars, HYDRA Trash Party, Hypothermia, M/M, Nightmares, References to Drugs, Starvation, Stun Batons, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly
Summary: 4 Pit of Vipers shorts I wrote for 8 out of 12 prompts of the "12 Days of Winter Whumperland" event run by amonthofwhump @ tumblr.
Relationships: Hydra Agents/Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Pit of Vipers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070681
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Deck the Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas. The realization hits him like a slap to the face. His former colleagues enslaved him in April. Has he really been their sex toy for so long?

Used to the sight of bare concrete floors, Brock’s surprised by the look of the room he’s led into. In the center stands a table set with various dishes. There’s mistletoe hanging above it, and the walls are decorated with Christmas cards taped to them. The smell of chestnut and roasted beef makes his mouth water.

_Christmas_. The realization hits him like a slap to the face. His former colleagues enslaved him in April. Has he really been their sex toy for so long? 

“We decided to have an impromptu Christmas dinner,” Foster speaks. “We have glass balls, lights, and candles, but we don’t have a motherfucking tree.”

Brock looks up at him, not quite processing what he’s saying. He’s met his family once, his mouseburger of a wife and two little sons. He imagines him go home to spend Christmas with them; have a festive dinner and sing carols with his kids, kiss his wife on the cheek after gifting her a diamond ring, and all of them laugh and smile, unaware the man of the family fucks his former commander in the ass every day.

“Here will be good.” King points at one corner, and Brock’s led that way on his leash. King takes off his choke collar, and Collins opens a cardboard box carried by McKinnon, filled to the brink with Christmas decorations.

It’s when Foster starts wrapping a string of colorful lights around his legs that Brock realizes he’s supposed to be their Christmas tree. Glass balls are hung on his ears, he’s given lit thin candles to hold, and King places a golden star on the top of his head. Since his enslavement, he’s been forced into various undesirable situations, but this one is certainly the weirdest. 

Foster grins as he looks him up and down, and Brock clenches his jaw, focused on staring straight ahead.

“That star better stays on your head,” Foster says with a hint of a threat. “Or a big, fat Santa Claus will get inside your chimney.”

King snickers. “Or two Santa Clauses.”

Brock stays perfectly still as his former teammates turn away from him to sit at the table. His stomach growls as he watches Collins cut the beef and McKinnon pour mulled wine. The last time he ate was days ago, he’s not sure how many exactly; perhaps a week. The beef smells amazing; way better than the cheap dog food he was offered then.

He tries to ignore the ache of his empty stomach and the merry conversation at the table, and to focus on staying still instead. He’s been through worse, more painful and unsettling things. This shouldn’t be any harder than playing a tree in a school performance, but maybe fifteen minutes pass before Brock realizes it won’t be a walk in the park. The lights warm up, burning hot against his bare skin all around him, especially painful in the sensitive spots. The candles are melting fast, the hot wax running down his hands. It’s hard not to fidget, but the slightest move of his head could send the star slipping to the floor, and Foster would make good on his threat.

He endures what feels like a hundred embers poking his skin through the entire dinner. Despite the burn getting worse with time, he starts breathing a little easier when the last bits disappear from the agents’ plates, and the conversations cease. They exchange goodbyes and stand up, throwing him disappointed glances as they leave the room, probably in a hurry to get home.

He can’t yet relax though, because Foster stays in his place at the table and watches him with an expectant smile.

And watches him.

Tense and sore, Brock stays still. They won’t be here forever; Foster will get bored eventually. He’ll do everything he can to avoid another rape, even if he doesn’t quite trust Foster to follow his own rules and just give up if the star doesn’t fall.

Foster reclines in his chair, sips on the dregs of his wine, and starts whistling Silent Night. Focused on watching his every move, Brock doesn’t notice when a candle flame reaches his fingers. He jumps at the unexpected burn. Time slows as he watches both candles and the golden star crash to the floor.

When he looks up, he sees Foster is already standing up with his belt hanging open and a predatory grin on his face.


	2. Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just the snow,” Rollins repeats thoughtfully. “Right. You don’t get out much anymore, do you?”
> 
> Brock doesn’t dare send him a glare or even grit his teeth. Rollins is clearly plotting some sort of punishment for ignoring him already.

Brock’s favorite thing in Rollins’s bedroom are the windows. He likes looking out on the now snow-covered garden and up at the sky. Likes to feel sunlight on his skin and to listen to raindrops sing against the glass. Sometimes Rollins opens the window, and Brock smells the wind.

But Rollins doesn’t like it when something takes Brock’s attention away from him. 

“Something interesting?” he asks, his hot breath making the skin on the back of Brock’s neck break in goosebumps. 

Brock goes rigid as he realizes he got caught daydreaming.

“Just the snow,” he mutters, thinking how he hasn’t been outside for nine months and how he spent most of that time locked away in a dog crate.

“Just the snow,” Rollins repeats thoughtfully. “Right. You don’t get out much anymore, do you?”

Brock doesn’t dare send him a glare or even grit his teeth. Rollins is clearly plotting some sort of punishment for ignoring him already. He imagines doing both, though.

“Would you like to?” Rollins continues when he doesn’t receive an answer. “We could have a romantic walk in the snow. Maybe make some snow angels?”

And as if that suggestion wasn’t creepy enough, Brock knows that’s not all. There’s a catch there somewhere, he just needs a moment to figure out what it is. He isn’t given one though; Rollins presses against the small of his back, urging him to leave his spot at the window and follow him.

“Let’s go.”

Having no say in the matter, Brock lets Rollins lead him to a wardrobe in a carpeted hall with a heavy stomach. Rollins grabs a heavy winter coat, and as Brock watches him get dressed, he realizes what the catch is: he’ll remain naked. He tells himself it’s not so bad, or at least not too high a price to pay for a walk outside. It won’t only be nice to breathe the fresh air, but it’s also a great opportunity to grab more intel on the place he’s held in–maybe even enough to plan an escape.

Fully dressed in high leather boots and a gray wool coat, Rollins wraps his arm around Brock’s naked form and leads him to the elevator. They get out on the first floor and walk down the corridor. Many agents they pass nod and greet Rollins, but Brock pays them no mind, too focused on remembering the way. They turn the corner and reach what looks more like a backdoor than a main door. It’s guarded by two agents who don’t react when Rollins opens it. Brock braces himself, but he still shudders when he’s hit with a blow of freezing wind. He knows he’s not supposed to fight the shaking, that it’s his body’s way to warm itself, but some leftover pride causes him to still himself even as he leans into Rollins’s warmth. Not for long, though.

The first step in the snow isn’t _that_ bad, maybe because his feet are used to cold tiles. But it gets worse. The snow is so icy it makes his feet burn, and he’s unable to stop the shaking after barely walking twenty feet. He finds himself hunched underneath Jack’s arm and pressed against his firm body. Rollins likes to have him close, so it’s a shock when he moves away. Still hunched and trembling, his feet and ankles burning, he grabs onto his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to hug himself and looks up at Rollins in a mix of confusion and fear. Rollins stares back, his face impenetrable.

“How about those snow angels, babe?” he asks in a low voice that sounds both seductive and threatening. “They’ll look so pretty on the lawn.”

For the next few seconds, Brock expects him to say he’s joking, but he’s only watching him expectantly. He can’t help a sigh that comes out in a cloud of mist. He can do it, he knows, he just really doesn’t want to–but then, his life has always consisted of doing things he didn’t want to. It must be why he hasn’t tried to kill himself yet.

He takes a deep breath, stretches his arms and falls backwards onto the snow. For a second, he feels nothing. Then, all his thermoreceptors light up. He grits his teeth through it, focusing on his task of moving his limbs up and down, spraying the fresh snow all around himself. He barely registers Rollins do the same beside him.

He’s not sure how long it takes for his body to start defying him. His burning limbs move like through molasses, he’s wet and freezing, and he can’t feel his ass. He goes still, his arms spread, legs closed, breathing like he just ran a marathon. He can barely feel Rollins’s gloved hand grab his.

“Let’s see how they turned out.”

He manages to sit up, but he needs Rollins’s help to get onto his feet. Shaking violently, he ends up in his warm embrace. When he chances a look up, Rollins’s face makes his blood run even colder. He’s wearing that pitiful expression he always does just before doing something unpleasant. Brock realizes his punishment isn’t over yet, and he holds onto him tighter; he doesn’t want to go through it, he wants Rollins to take him hom–

Back to his bedroom.

“Unfortunately, duty calls,” Rollins says with the most theatrical sigh Brock’s ever heard. “But you’re enjoying yourself so much, you should stay. I’ll see you later.”

Brock swallows his leftover pride down; it tastes bitter. “No,” he utters, his numbed hands clenching Rollins’s coat. “Please. I’m sorry.”

Rollins smiles with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He forcefully extricates himself from Brock’s hold. “What for?”

Trembling in the freezing wind, Brock watches him walk away. When he opens the door, the two agents come out and stand on either side to guard both it and Brock.

Hunched, Brock starts pacing to conserve heat, though it’s more of a trudge. Every minute feels like eternity, but no matter how many of them pass and how many times he looks at the door, Rollins doesn’t show up. Fatigue sets deep in his bones, but his training doesn’t let him rest in this weather. He needs to find another way inside.

He looks around, taking notice of the tall fence separating the garden from the outside world. It’s black and solid, almost impossible to climb on. But if he tries, somebody will have to react. He flounders over and reaches for the top. His numbed hands barely register how cold the metal is. He’s surprised he’s strong enough to pull himself up. He can hear the guards shout behind him, the snow crack under their heavy boots. But now he’s high enough he can take a peek over the fence. He sees busy streets, cars stuck in a traffic, people hurrying down the sidewalks. He’s so unused to the outside world, it feels unreal, overwhelming even, but he’s never more craved to be a part of it. He pushes himself off the fence with his feet, and–

Two stun batons press against his ribs. He falls with a yelp, thrashing under hits of electricity. When they finally stop, Brock expects the guards to play with him more, but they leave him sore and shaking in the snow. They either treat their job too seriously, or have no desire to expose their dicks to the freezing cold.

He doesn’t think he could get up even if he wanted to. He’s barely conscious when Rollins finally comes back for him. He covers him with something warm, heavy, and smelling of him–must be his coat–and picks him up.

“Outside is no good for you,” he says, carrying him back inside. “I’ll warm you up.”

Brock leans his head against Rollins’s chest and closes his eyes.


	3. Sugar Plums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has only two kinds of dreams, and both are nightmares.

He has only two kinds of dreams, and both are nightmares.

The first kind doesn’t give him the break that sleep’s supposed to. He dreams about being stuck in a tight cage. He dreams about hands touching him, about lewd whispers right against his ear. When he opens his eyes, he can’t tell if he’s still dreaming or if he was asleep at all, because it’s still happening; his head lying on the metal floor of his crate, his ass outside and in the air, plowed by some guy behind him.

The second kind is even worse.

In those dreams, he escapes. He manages to jump the tall fence in the garden and outrun the guards. He knocks out a man and steals his warm, soft clothes. He gets back home and airs it out, so it doesn’t smell of dust and stale air anymore. He adopts a dog, a big loyal one, with black fur and a white patch on his chest. 

It’s always mundane. He’s cooking or doing laundry, or going out shopping. The scents of tomato soup, fresh vegetables, fabric softener, and wind bring him joy and comfort. It varies, but one thing repeats every single time.

He always feeds the dog.

The can cracks open loudly, and the shit brown goo stinks when it plops into the plastic bowl. His mouth goes dry and his stomach turns as he wonders why he bought such cheap food. He watches Patch approach his bowl with dread. He knows something bad’s about to happen.

Then he wakes up. His clean kitchen and Patch disappear. The stench remains. The plastic bowl stands in front of his face, just behind the bars of his crate.

He should be used to the heartache that comes with the realization it was just a dream; that his reality is the real nightmare. But it always hits the same.

He likes sleeping with Rollins not only because of his warm, comfy bed. The sleeping pills Rollins always gives him black him out. No dreams, no nightmares; just a break. It’s the closest to death he’s ready to get, and he takes it gratefully always.


	4. All I Want for Christmas Is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s drifting off under the warm weight when Rollins’s hands start to wander. Brock chances a glance up to where Rollins’s head rests against his shoulder, but his eyes are closed. Even when he’s half-asleep, his first instinct is to touch and take him like he owns him. Because it’s true, Brock thinks bitterly, Rollins does own him.

Despite the heavy covers weighing him down, Brock wakes up shivering. He’s in Rollins’s bedroom. The daylight falling in through the windows is dim, obscured by the heavily falling snow. The air on the exposed skin of his face and neck is cold, and he buries himself further under the covers. Rollins is sleeping beside him on his stomach, hugging a pillow to his face. He’s close enough for Brock to feel his body heat, but too far away to benefit from it. Gently and a little fearfully, Brock moves closer.

Rollins cracks one eye open. “Cold?” he mumbles, to which Brock reluctantly nods.

With a grunt, Rollins braces himself on one elbow to gather Brock under his other arm and roll on top of him. He’s heavy but warm, so Brock doesn’t mind all that much. He even presses his cold feet against Rollins’s calves, making him hiss a curse.

He’s drifting off under the warm weight when Rollins’s hands start to wander. Brock chances a glance up to where Rollins’s head rests against his shoulder, but his eyes are closed. Even when he’s half-asleep, his first instinct is to touch and take him like he owns him. Because it’s true, Brock thinks bitterly, Rollins does own him.

Rollins’s hands open his legs and find his hole, still slick from last night’s ‘warming up’. Brock grits his teeth when long fingers breach him, but knowing how big Rollins’s dick is, he’s actually glad for any sort of prep.

Rollins replaces his fingers with his cock, and Brock winces as he works it in. He doesn’t think it’ll ever stop being unpleasant. No matter how gentle and considerate Rollins is, it’s never enough, though he’s gotten better with time. On one hand, it’s good; Brock can’t imagine a worse case scenario than growing comfortable with his current situation. On the other, sometimes, like right now, he wishes he could just lie and not mind a cock rearranging his guts, to just take it as a particularly lousy sex, not rape that’s uncomfortable at best.

At least it does the job. It’ll never be Brock’s favorite way of warming up, but it’s working. Rollins is still sleepy, moving in slow, powerful thrusts on top of him. His body heat and sweat make Brock feel like his body is being enveloped in hot, heavy steam, and soon his own skin breaks in sweat that soaks the sheets beneath him. His breathing grows heavier as Rollins speeds up, chasing his orgasm, and now he actually wouldn’t mind if Rollins opened the window. But he never does, maybe afraid that Brock would try to jump out–which he probably would, despite being twenty stories above the ground.

Rollins finishes with a moan, and after a long minute of panting against Brock’s neck, he rolls off him, purring, stretching, and smiling like a happy cat. This display only irritates Brock who feels pretty gross covered in Rollins’s sweat and semen.

“Merry Christmas, babe,” Rollins says.


End file.
